


You See Through My Disguise

by aibidil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Cargo trousers, Cellars, Creative use of resources, Dramatic Draco Malfoy, Feels, Harry is winging it, Harry saves Dobby, Have you ever craved an HP fic with Weekend at Bernies vibes? Have I got the fic for you!, Legilimency (Harry Potter), M/M, Malfoy Manor, Mention of past threats of rape and torture, Necromancy, Rats, Sassy Harry Potter, Transfiguration (Harry Potter), Voldemort is stuck in customs, War AU, bone deep weariness, feelings of hopelessness whilst stuck in an infested cellar, hanging out near a corpse, not really but there's magic and corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil
Summary: Bellatrix's knife flew across the room, but Harry leaped, pushing Dobby and Griphook to safety but stranding himself at Malfoy Manor. Now he and Draco are locked in the cellar with Wormtail's corpse and a rat, waiting for Voldemort to return and decide their fate.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 49
Kudos: 437





	You See Through My Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be finishing the next chapter of When Times are Dire, and I will! but I had two days off of homeschooling and I really wanted to write something short that I could finish, so here we are. Rats are topical af for 2020 given the pestilence, no?
> 
> Huge thanks to frnkly for betaing and laughing with me! The title is from Placebo's "Teenage Angst," and a [playlist for the fic can be found here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/77Ij7kfM2BXoUpN3HDjuA7?si=GnSLk4l7SkaC8TC0mnsuSQ) (please know I laughed for about 20 minutes when I added the Modest Mouse track).
> 
> A disclaimer I've never written before, but here we are: Trans people matter. Trans women are women. Trans men are men. My ongoing engagement with this universe does not indicate absolution of its author.

We sit in silence for so long it stops feeling awkward and starts feeling inevitable. I've just accepted that the only thing I'll be hearing is the hum of a malfunctioning charm when Potter finally speaks.

"There's fucking rats in here. I thought you were supposed to be all posh, or whatever." He's sitting on the floor, his back against the stone wall, leaning his arms on his bent knees. His hair is stringy—not the unattractive-attractive way Potter's hair should be, but like he hasn't bathed in months. He meets my eye. At least the swelling in his face has mostly cleared. "I thought rich people would be able to keep out vermin." 

He doesn't mention the other rat—Wormtail's corpse—which my aunt thought fitting to leave in here with us.

I'm sitting against the opposite wall, mirroring his position, except I'm freshly bathed. I'm sure I look like shite, though, even if my hair is clean. 

I scan though possible responses to his rodent commentary: silent treatment, ridicule him for not knowing that magical barriers can't keep out non-magical pests (this option is perhaps the most comfortable choice, as taunts related to his Muggleness have been a staple of our dialogue—well, a staple of my remarks, anyway—over the years), make a snide comment about his social status. 

But I'm so tired—every inch of me, physical and mental, aches. Even poking Potter has lost its lustre.

I stare at him. "Rats are equal opportunity infesters." 

Potter sits up straight, dropping his head back to the wall. "I guess that's good. I'm going to die in your fucking cellar, but at least rich people have rats. Do you also get like, roaches? Silverfish?"

"He's too vain to kill you in a cellar." I'm not sure why I'm voicing this particular thought, though it's true. "So, there's that. You'll probably die upstairs."

Part of me expects Potter to get angry—to shoot away from the opposite wall like a Blasting Curse and tackle me. He doesn't.

Maybe we'd always have got along swimmingly, if only we'd both been defeated, resigned.

It's disconcerting, to be here with him. After months in this house, questioning every decision I've ever made, living in constant fear—now I'm here with the person who has made all the right choices. And he has no reason to believe that I don't want him dead. Even if I did just kind of save his life.

"Will he kill you, too?" Potter asks, after a minute.

I flinch. As much as death seems likely, it's not as if I _fancy_ it. I nod. "Unless he has some other scheme to use me to torture my parents. One that requires me alive."

Potter doesn't say anything, so I'm left to ruminate, which is always dangerous with me. I should never be left to ruminate. 

The Dark Lord will want to use me to torture and humiliate my parents. But given what just happened.... I don't think there's any way he will let me live. One can't lie to save Harry Potter and live to tell the tale.

I'm under no illusion. This is war. When I said _I can't be sure_ , I committed treason. I didn't think I'd get caught, but I knew that's what I was doing.

There's only one punishment for treason.

"No, he'll definitely kill me," I confirm. 

Potter catches my eye, then looks away. "Cheers," he says. The wry tone is characteristic of Potter, but here, now, it sounds resigned. I don't like it.

It's expected of _me_ to become despondent. I overreact to every obstacle; I fall into doldrums. Ask Pansy. Ask anyone. It's who I am—I once feinted fainting on the grand staircase to avoid eating haricot vert. (A decade later, I wouldn't pull such antics, but I stand by little Draco's distaste. The blasted beans _squeak_ when you chew them.) I arranged an execution order for a Hippogriff because it inflicted upon me an injury that Madam Pomfrey called, "nothing more than a mild bruise with high visibility due to light complexion." (It hurt, I still maintain. And clearly, my dignity has never recovered. _Mild_ harm, indeed.)

The same cannot be said for Potter. Harry Fucking Potter might get angry, he might sulk, but he doesn't practice histrionics. Not like me. 

Hence, our general sameishness with regard to the current situation is disconcerting, to say the least.

"You realise you traded your life for a _house-elf_ ," I say, not caring that it's rude and insensitive and proves every bad thing Potter thinks of me. But who cares about being sensitive? There's no sense trying to spin my treason to get on Potter's good side. We're both as good as dead.

"Yes, I realise that. Thanks." Potter closes his eyes, and when he speaks again, it's soft. "He's my friend."

My jaw clenches, an angry wave pushing past the numb detachment in my chest. "I can't believe I just committed treason for no _fucking_ reason. Because your side is so bleeding-heart you will lose a fucking _war_ because a house-elf was your friend."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Potter says simply, and _fuck_ that's aggravating. 

I reach around on the cold stone floor for something to chuck at his head, but there's nothing. I reach into my pocket and find a wax seal my mother had returned to me at breakfast. That feels like a lifetime ago. I lean away from the wall to aim properly, and feel a tiny spark of satisfaction as the fancy M-adorned-stamp clips Potter's knee.

"Oi!"

I shrug, unrepentant. "Go ahead, tell me how I'm a terrible person for thinking your life matters more than a house-elf's. _You._ Harry Potter. The only person who can take down the Dark Lord."

Potter, to my surprise, doesn't argue. He sighs. "I didn't think. I never _think_. Sometimes I just—I _feel_ too much. Is that so bad? I refuse to think that makes me a freak. I get so fucking tired of everyone looking at me like I'm so strange—like there's something wrong with me for caring. 'Oh silly Harry, coming in last place because he couldn't leave a little girl tied up underwater. Oh Harry, so naive!' Maybe everyone else should care _more_. Did you ever think of that?"

I sigh, and it comes out sounding performative, over the top, even though I feel that sigh deep in my soul. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm here for the same reason, you realise. Only in my case, you're the house-elf and I'm the hero."

Potter snorts. "Yeah, you're right, Malfoy. My almost taking a knife for Dobby is exactly the same as you telling your creepy aunt that you _couldn't be sure_ it was me." He catches my eye, though, and I know we both know it's at least true insofar as I, too, risked death.

There's a quiet minute in which I start to panic that we're about to revert to that despondent silence again. I'm not sure I can take it. I might do something outrageous to prevent it, like hop up and perform a soft shoe. Anything to avoid sitting in silence again.

Potter tilts his head, studying me. "Can I ask you something?"

I shrug, acquiescing. Anything to avoid the soft shoe.

"Do you want him to lose? Or did you just, you know, commit treason by accident?"

I stare at the floor. I have no idea how to answer the question. It makes me wish I had Veritaserum, because then I'd know for sure what I thought, either way. As it is, I have no idea. It's all so muddled up. I still hate the Order's politics. I still think Dumbledore had lots of wrong ideas. I still think there's danger in mixing magical and Muggle societies. 

I raise my eyes. I try to imagine Potter and the Dark Lord in a duel. I try to really picture it—how they'd stand, what they'd look like, what ugly words the Dark Lord would monologue—to figure out what my emotions would be. 

My stomach clenches. It's obvious, of course. The idea of Potter's spell hitting the Dark Lord, pulling the life from his dangerous, contemptible, cursed body? The only possible emotional response is relief. 

The duel resolving in the opposite direction? I start to feel nauseated before I even properly imagine it. 

"I want him dead," I say, and it's the first time I'm allowing myself to articulate this thought, but I know it's true. "I want you to win." It doesn't feel like some big reveal; it just feels like the simple truth.

Potter nods, and I'm struck again by how tired he looks. "I know." He fiddles with his trousers. They're really ugly. They have some kind of exterior pocket mounted near the outer knee, like a handbag is riding side-saddle on the trousers. "Do you have any idea how long it will be until he gets here?"

I shake my head. "No. They said he's on another continent and it will take him a while to get back. He can't alert the authorities to his arrival, and you know how international borders are."

Potter blinks back at me, and I realise he almost definitely does not know.

"There are wards at national borders," I elaborate, trying not to sound patronising, but I don't have much practice with that so I'm sure I fail. "He'll be able to bypass them, but he can't simply Apparate in. I don't know how long, though. A few hours."

"And do you think they can actually keep Dobby out? Keep him from coming back for me, I mean?" Potter looks guilty—like there's a war in him between wanting the elf to be able to rescue him and not wanting to put the elf in danger. I can't help but wonder if Potter would ask Dobby to save me, too, or if he'd leave me to my (admittedly well-deserved) fate.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Potter. I have no idea how house-elf magic works. I'm sure they can keep him out for a while, at least."

He raises an eyebrow. "It seems worth noting that they can't keep the rats out." 

I can't tell if he's taking the piss or raising it as an actual objection, so I ignore him. We both pointedly ignore Wormtail's body.

"So I take it you don't know any secret ways out of here." Potter's look is challenging.

"If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here." 

"Wandless magic? You don't have some sort of special pure-blood connection to the house, enabling you to like, bend the house to your will or some shit?"

I study him, wondering if he's actually finding a way to be optimistic even though he's stuck with me in a fucking dungeon. But no—he still looks resigned. It's like he's asking out of duty, even though he knows it's futile.

"Not of which I'm aware," I say, annoyed that somehow he thinks this hinges on me. If anyone is going to magically get us out of this hell, it's obviously going to be him. Harry fucking Potter, after all. _He_ defies the odds; not me.

"I can't believe after everything," he says, throwing an arm out to the side, "I'm going to die here, with you." 

I scoff. 

"He died as he lived," Potter proclaims, and maybe I was wrong about him not engaging in histrionics. "Surrounded by enemies!"

"I'm one person," I parry. "Surely I'm not 'surrounding' you."

Potter rolls his eyes. "Why do you hate me so much, anyway? I mean, we're about to die. Might as well lay it all out."

I deflate a bit. "I don't know, Potter."

"My hair, right?" he deadpans. 

I sigh with some drama. I think of the last year, of being stuck in this house, worried that I'd get raped by Death Eaters, or bitten by a werewolf, or killed on the Dark Lord's whim. I think of watching Professor Burbage's lifeless body fall to the table on which I've eaten Christmas geese. Hating Potter is a vague memory, fading away behind all that. Like an old pair of shoes that I remember loving, but that no longer fit. "I don't hate you, Potter. Though you are, of course, eminently annoying."

"Well, you used to hate me."

I can't deny it, can I? "Sure. You hated me, too." I scrunch my nose. "Not sure about the tense, there. You probably still hate me."

"I don't hate you, Malfoy," Potter says, eyes flitting around the cellar. "Everyone upstairs would kill me given half a chance. You wouldn't."

It rubs. He doesn't _like_ me, he simply has other people to hate more. I've been supplanted by a bunch of megalomaniacs who don't even _know_ Potter! My pride! 

If I wasn't so tired, I'd pick a fight, just to get his attention solidly on me again.

Ugh, I need to change the subject. "I can't believe we're going to die today. If I'd written a bucket list, it would be mostly unchecked. What do you wish you'd had a chance to do, Potter?"

He snorts. "Everything. Everything. I haven't done a fucking thing."

"I always wanted to go to the magical hot springs in Finland."

"I wanted to have a family."

"I wanted to move out of here, get my own place."

"I wanted to sit around doing nothing, playing a lot of Quidditch."

That sounds nice. "Me too."

"I wanted—I wanted to get to grow up!" His voice gets louder, agitated. "I wanted to have sex! I wanted to be in love with someone like my parents were!"

I start to chuckle—my emotions are all over the place, and there's just something so funny about Harry Potter lamenting not getting laid. Almost anyone at Hogwarts would've obliged, really. 

"Don't laugh at me, Malfoy."

I force myself to stop, though it's difficult. "I'm laughing _with_ you, Potter. Me too."

He rolls his eyes. "You don't need to placate me."

"It's true!" Well, true enough. I've certainly never been in love, and I refuse to count my botched sexual escapades with Pansy as losing my virginity. "Our lives are pitiful."

Potter doesn't deny it, but he pushes himself up and kneels, feeling around on the ground with his hands.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Searching. I can't just sit here—I'll lose it. Dumbledore said magic always leaves a trace. I have no idea what that means, but he put his hands out like this when he was searching for it."

If our only hope is Potter mimicking his memory of what Dumbledore looked like while practicing magic, we're going to be here for a while. But I keep my mouth shut.

And merciful heavens—I don't want to watch Potter crawling around. Well, I _do_ , but it's a little too close to unwanted fantasies from which I suffered in year three, so I close my eyes and pretend to rest.

I hear the humming of that malfunctioning charm again, and the scurrying of the rat. Every once in awhile I hear someone yelling upstairs and try not to worry about my mother.

"Malfoy," Potter says. "Come here. What's this?"

I hoist myself up, ready to explain the function of some standard household magic or something. But Potter is frowning at a blank stretch of stone wall.

"Er, a wall?"

He rolls his eyes, grabs my wrist, and tugs me closer. It's strange to be this close without punching him. 

"Shut up and listen," he demands.

I put my hands on the wall, imitating Potter imitating Dumbledore. At first, nothing, but then I feel it. A disturbance in the magical energy. I have no idea what it is. I try to get a feel for it, then I turn to look at him. "Is this a spot that's missing magic, or a spot that _has_ magic? I can't tell, only that it's different from the surroundings."

He whispers, "I don't know. Try to visualise it."

He closes his eyes, hand still on the wall, so I mirror him, trying to visualise magic—both my own, happily circulating in my core, and the magic around me. I've never been very good at it, to my mother's dismay. According to her, the problem is too many thoughts in my head to be able to concentrate properly. According to my father, it's a lack of strength and discipline. 

(Everything wrong with me, according to my father, is a lack of strength and discipline.)

For some reason, though, I can sense Potter's magic easily enough. It's like kneeling next to a sun, which pisses me off. I hate being outshone. He shifts and his shoulder presses into mine, and—I can visualise it. There's our magic, but then there's a bright conduit of magic in the wall. It must be some kind of nexus, where all the different strands of magic in the house intersect. I don't know anything about house magic. My father would laugh if he knew this would be the thing to doom me. He'd always tried to convince me it was important, and damn him for being right.

"Can we tap it?" Potter asks, and I open my eyes to find his green ones staring back at me.

"It's not a keg," I scoff. "But I think there is a way. I don't know what it is, though. Fuck!"

"Can we like, _use_ it? Like a wand?"

I sink from my knees, landing on my arse. "Well, no. It's not an object that amplifies magic, like a wand. It's a conduit of actual magic. I think. But that does suggest that we can use it, if we knew how to get at it. If we could control it."

Potter stands and starts pacing, which is going to give me a headache. "They didn't teach us this at school!"

"Of course not," I say. "Most places don't have magic like this. Only big wizarding homes, or like, Hogwarts. It's not exactly something one often needs to do. My father tried to teach me, and, of course, I ignored him. Something about giving the magic form? I don't know."

"Give it form?" Potter asks, spinning to look at me with too much intensity. (Not that I want him to look away.) "Like a Patronus?"

I blink. That's surprisingly astute. "I suppose so. In general, magic isn't very useful to wizards unless it has a form. When you harness emotion and magic and cast it as a Patronus, you get a much more effective shield of protection when it has form—of an animal."

I don't mention how much I've read about the Patronus Charm. I thought, stuck in this house, that if I could learn it, I could protect myself. All I discovered was that I'm too far gone for that type of goodness-infused magic.

"I once watched Dumbledore pull a chain of magic out of thin air," he says, jolting me from dwelling on my Patronus failure.

"A chain of magic? What does that mean? Like, causal links of spells?"

Potter frowns. "What? The fuck? No. A fucking chain. A literal chain. Do you think he gave magic the form of a chain? I had just assumed there was like, a magic chain chilling there."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter."

"Fine, I'll do it myself." He turns away from me and puts his hand back on the wall. I watch as he closes his eyes. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then he almost starts to sparkle a bit, so faintly that you wouldn't notice if you weren't paying attention. Then there's a glow. He's managed to call up his magic, which is impressive in itself, even if I'm not sure he'll be able to do anything with it. I sit up taller.

For a moment, it seems like there will be a burst of magic, but it abruptly goes dark, and Potter sinks to his knees, tilting sideways until his shoulder hits the wall. 

I start to get up. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," he says. "Fuck. It felt like I almost had it. I want my fucking wand!"

"If you had your wand, you wouldn't need to tap into my house's magic," I point out, but he ignores me.

"I don't think I can do it without more magical power." He sighs, burying his head in his hands. 

I turn away. I don't want to make him feel worse, but I don't know how to interact with him without being hurtful. 

He needs more power. I drop my forehead to the stone wall and ask myself if there's any bravery left in me. 

"Malfoy."

I turn around. His hair is even wilder where he shoved his hands into it. 

"I'm sorry I sliced you open last year."

Oh, wonderful. This is perhaps the _last_ thing I want to talk about. "Don't worry about it, Potter, re—"

"No, seriously, I have to say this." He fiddles with his ugly trousers again. "I didn't know the spell would do that. I'm really sorry."

I nod. I don't _forgive_ him, not really. It's hard to forget lying in a pool of one's own blood. But it's not like I _blame_ him, exactly. "Yes, well," I say. "I was mid-Crucio. We're both the worst. So I suppose we're even."

Potter almost smiles. The corner of his lip lifts up and everything. That shouldn't make me as happy as it does.

I hate that he has that effect on me, so I start babbling again. "What do you think Granger and Weasley are doing now? They're not foolhardy enough to try to come back, are they?"

"I don't know." Potter looks up at me. "They wouldn't be able to get in, right? The wards would keep them out?"

Of course he's more concerned about his friends. I nod.

I stand and walk the perimeter of our prison. It's just walls—maddening. Stone, stone, mortar. A rivulet of water. Stone. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, only that I'm hoping something reveals itself so I don't voice the barmy idea that's forming in my brain.

"How do people escape from magical spaces, anyway?" I ask aloud, more to myself than to Potter. I've read a lot of mysteries in my day; I should be able to think of something. "Like, people do it."

"Are you an Animagus?" he asks, and when I give him a disbelieving look he shrugs and says, "That's me out of ideas."

I pull off my robe, leaving me in a vest and trousers. Potter gives me a strange look that I absolutely do not have time to dwell upon. I invert the robe pockets. There's a pocket watch, a Mixie's Mint, and a scrap of paper. "Empty your pockets, Potter. We need to know exactly what we have at our disposal." I rip apart the seam of my robe at the back of the neck and pull out the tiny metal strips that hold it in place. When I touch them, they hum faintly with magic. I toss them into the pile.

He adds a small vial of dittany, a button, and a Puking Pastille. 

We frown at the loot. "I feel like we're on a really boring game show," Potter says. 

I have no idea what a game show is, but I agree with his sentiment. I sigh. "Look, you're not allowed to mock me. I don't think this will work, but I feel like I need to try."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "I will never promise not to mock you."

I roll my eyes and pick up one of the metal strips. My fingers tingle from the magic. I hold it like a wand and swish it through the air, attempting to cast a Lumos.

Nothing happens.

Potter snickers. "Try casting with the Puking Pastille next, Malfoy. Or the button."

"Fuck you."

He laughs harder.

I sit back on my ankles. "You know what, Potter? Fuck you. Fuck. _Fuck_!"

He stops laughing and looks at me with something that might be concern.

"Okay Potter," I say, speaking so quickly I stumble over my words. "Listen. You might be able to use the house's energy if you have more power. I'm going to let you use my magical energy. Here's the thing: it could kill me. It's worth the risk, because if we do nothing, we'll both die anyway."

Potter's eyes grow comically wide. "Use your magic? What—I can't—how?!"

"It's not difficult!" I say. "Well, I've never done it. But magic is controlled by the mind, right? We use our thoughts and concentration to harness our magic. So you just need to do Legilimency on me, and then when you cast, you'll be able to draw on my energy, too."

Potter, the noob, looks horrified. " _What_?! You can _do_ that? Why don't people do it all the time?" 

"Didn't you hear me?" I snap, annoyed. Now that I've proposed it, I want to get it over with. "It could kill me. And it only works if the passive participant is willing. Pretty rare that people still want to do it. It will make _you_ vulnerable, too, I should add. I could steal your magic while you do it."

Potter's mouth falls open. 

"I won't!" I clarify, hating the incredulous look on Potter's face. I tilt my head toward the ceiling for strength. "Honestly. We will _die_ if we do nothing. Just do it. Pull a magic chain out of thin air, or whatever. Have at my magical core. Have _at_ it."

For a long moment, I think Potter is going to try to be all noble and refuse me. But after a bit, he gets a look of determination on his face and nods. "Okay. You tell me if you need me to stop, okay?"

I confirm, thinking those words are a cruel mockery of many of my fantasies over the years. Not how I'd imagined him or I saying those words to each other, really. 

We kneel in front of the wall that has the magical anomaly, and Potter looks at me with big, inquiring green eyes.

"Go on then," I insist with impatience.

He places his hand on the wall. "I've never done this without a wand. Give me a minute."

Legilimency is a type of magic, like flying or Animagus transformation, that doesn't require a wand, though wands make it easier for beginners. I'm sure he'll get it in a moment. So I nod and turn my attention to my Occlumency defences. It's strange to intentionally let the defences down, but that's what I have to do. What we're about to do requires Potter to have full access to my brain. I try not to think about what he might find in there. My thoughts are terrifying even to me, sometimes.

When his consciousness appears in my brain, I don't notice it immediately. It's so different than other Legilimens I've experienced. To be fair though, I haven't had a representative sample with Bellatrix and the Dark Lord. They _blast_ like unwanted guests into one's home, knocking things over unrepentantly, opening cabinets and stealing. Potter, in contrast, walks in politely, waiting for me to wave him inside. I try not to be charmed.

It's strange—Potter is everywhere. My entire being is eclipsed by him, and it's making me dangerously likely to dredge up memories of him that I don't want to share. I recite the ingredients of Wiggenweld Potion, giving my consciousness something to do. It won't keep him from seeing any memories, but it will, hopefully, prevent me from handing them to him.

But Potter isn't snooping, not really. I wonder if I'd be so polite, if it were me in his brain. Probably not; I'm not a good person, am I?

As soon as I think it, I'm flooded with a memory—the memory of accepting the Dark Mark. Fuck. That memory will not let go of me. It's as if every ounce of shame I've ever experienced has coalesced into that one memory. I inhale, trying to get through it, but the memory fades more quickly than it ever does. In its place, oddly, floats a more recent memory: I'm in the drawing room, looking at Harry Potter's swollen, yet still recognisable, face. I can feel my earlier uncertainty, my nausea. I feel myself torn between impossible choices, but at the forefront all I can think is _If I say it's him, he'll die_. It's only a memory, but I feel sick again, reliving it. As my words _I can't be sure_ echo in my head, Potter turns his attention to the wall, trying to leave my brain and memories alone. 

For a brief second, it rankles. He's _in my brain_ with _unfettered access_ and he's going to _turn away_? How dare he? I could deliberately pull up a memory. I could use it to knock at the door of his consciousness. Which memory, though?

"Calm down, Malfoy," Potter murmurs, and he's concentrating on the magic.

Right. He needs my core. Focus, Draco! I exhale, envisioning my magic, Potter's magic, the magic in the house. I don't know how to do this, exactly, but I try to imagine offering it to him. I feel a shift in Potter's magic next to me, then a pulling—almost the feeling of a Portkey hooking behind your navel, except less like a hook and more like suction. I try to keep calm through breathing, and, without thinking, I lean until my shoulder touches Potter. This is our only hope. _He's_ my only hope. 

It's easier, somehow, when we're touching, and I feel a sickening lurch, like someone just reached down my throat and pulled out my spleen. I break my fall with my hands, and I look up, through my hanging hair, trying to see what's happening.

Potter whoops with joy, and it's strange because the whoop is in my brain as well as in my ears. He's holding a silvery, translucent, glowing chain.

"Potter," I gasp, gesturing at my head. 

"Oh," he says. "Sorry!" And he focuses, retreating out of my mind. My head throbs, like an echo in a room that used to have more furniture. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I claim, sure I still look green from the nausea. "It was not pleasant, but I'm not dead."

"Not dead is good," Potter says. His face splits into a wide grin. 

I turn away, hoping the dim light doesn't reveal the flush on my cheeks.

"Try it," I say. "Do magic."

He grasps the strange chain and whispers, "Lumos." 

A burst of light explodes from his hand, blinding us. He mutters quickly, "Nox!" and the light flickers out.

I turn, incredulous, and smile at him. I can't help it. I'm not being safe. I'm not protecting myself. I'm smiling. "It worked."

Potter looks over his shoulder, toward the stairs. "Side-Along?"

I reach out and he grabs my hand. I feel him turn; I almost feel us being sucked into the vacuum of space, but at the last second we're thrown onto our backs.

I hit my head on the wall; the rough stone cuts a gash in my forehead.

"Fuck!" Potter says, pushing up on his elbows. "What was that?"

"Anti-Apparition wards," I groan, touching my fingers to the stinging cut. It's not bleeding too badly. "They've probably put up a magical barrier—nothing in, nothing out. Here, let me try to Conjure something from elsewhere in the house." I reach for the magic that Potter has manifested into a chain, but he stops me.

"Wait," he says, looking at me much too intently as he touches the chain. "Episkey." 

The gash on my head is healed. I'm momentarily speechless—an unnatural state for me. "Er, thanks."

It takes me a moment to remember what I was trying to do. I wrap my fingers around the chain and jump at the sensation. It's bizarre—nothing like touching a wand. If holding a wand is like holding a match, holding the chain is like holding fire itself. I try to Conjure food from the kitchen, but nothing happens, confirming my suspicion.

"Fuck," Potter says.

"Quite."

He slumps on the wall. "Fuck."

"You said that already."

The rat runs by, and I swear it's giving me a look. I turn my back on it. "Why the fuck was Dumbledore giving magic the form of a chain?"

Potter's mouth twists. "He was using it to pull a boat out of a pool of Inferi."

I lean forward. "You're taking the piss."

He shrugs. "You'll never know."

"Fine," I sigh. "Don't tell me. So what do we do now? We've got magic, but we can't use it."

"I don't know," Potter whines. "What would Hermione do?"

I sneer. 

He wildly points a finger at me. "Don't you dare say anything bad about her."

"I wasn't! I was merely going to say that I am right here; there's no need to wonder about _Hermione_. You know I have top marks in our classes, excepting Granger."

A tiny grin quirks the side of his mouth. "You don't get to say you have 'top marks' and then qualify it. You have top marks if you have top marks, and you don't. Hermione does."

I roll my eyes. "Technicalities. Anyway, we can figure something out."

"Yes," Potter says. "We have a fantastic arsenal here. A button, a mint, a watch, a candy that makes you puke, and dittany. Can you brew us a potion?"

I close my eyes, trying to ignore him, but the problem is that Potter is very distracting. He always has been. That's the whole problem, really. 

We have magic, but it can't leave the bounds of his cellar. We have a pile of shit. We have a corpse. 

"Maybe one of us should check Wormtail's body," I venture. There's no way I'm doing that. "Maybe he has something on him."

Potter makes an exaggerated retching noise.

"Lovely," I say, affecting disgust though I can hear myself smiling.

"Here," he says, touching a finger to the chain. "Accio anything useful off Wormtail."

I roll my eyes—that will never work. One must choose one's search terms precisely, my father always says, because otherwise—

Something sails across the room, straight out of the rat-man's pocket. It lands in front of Potter's feet.

"A Galleon," he says, laughing a bit. His eyes have that spark of wonder they often have when he's delighted by magic. "I guess that's useful, but not really for this purpose." He sticks it in his pocket.

"I should get half," I say, for no reason other than being annoying.

Potter rolls his eyes. "Suck it up, rich boy."

I stick out my tongue like I'm eleven again, and I don't even care. After a minute, I muse, "I don't think they'll be able to come in here without removing the wards. The magic they did is probably preventing anything in or out, including them."

Potter's head tips to the side. "So you think there will be a split second when they lower the wards when we could Apparate out?"

"Well, I don't know. I'm pondering."

"They'll probably have someone casting to Bind us the moment they remove the magic," Potter says. "Especially after what we did before, er—" He gestures at Wormtail.

"Yah. We could Disillusion ourselves?"

Potter shakes his head. "That doesn't work very well in this kind of light. They kinda shimmer."

He's right, though I'm surprised he knows that. 

"Wish I had a Decoy Detonator in my pocket, instead of this rubbish."

"Dittany's hardly rubbish," I point out. I used to beg my mother to buy me dittany to heal my acne, but she claimed it was too rare and expensive to be used for acne. I'd told her, what good is wealth, if it can't be spent? She held her ground but bought it for me the next Christmas.

"Is there another way we could create a diversion?" Potter asks with a faraway look.

Wormtail's just lying there. It's creeping me out, especially since I keep forgetting about him and then remembering again. For a moment, I can't look away. "Do you think the rat will eat the corpse? Or do you think it has a sense that the man is part rat, and it would be against the ethical code of rats?"

Potter, to my great surprise, bursts out laughing. A real laugh, his head tilted back. "For fuck's sake, Malfoy. I don't think rats have an ethical code." He sobers. "The rat-rats, I mean. I know people-rats don't have an ethical code."

"I'm not certain whether rats engage in cannibalism," I say in my curious-academic voice. 

"I'm also not certain whether rats engage in cannibalism." He says it back mocking my accent, and I would never admit it, but he does a fair job.

"I can tell you I won't be eating him," I say.

Potter grimaces. "That is disgusting."

"Your mind is in the gutter."

"What?" he splutters, and I grin. "No—no, it isn't! It's gross regardless! _Your_ mind is in the gutter!"

"Sorry," I say, in a tone that fails to connote contrition, "I'm stuck in a cellar with a corpse, about to die. One must take one's jollies where one can."

"One must…" Potter mumbles, shaking his head.

"I'm not saying I get my jollies from corpses!" I clarify. "Quite the contrary, as a point of fact. I'm merely saying I got a jolly from joking about it."

"No one," Potter says, leaning forward, insistent, "is getting their jollies off Wormtail's corpse."

"Too right," I agree, looking over at it with distaste. "We could Vanish it, I suppose, now we have your fancy chain."

When I turn back, Potter's contemplating the corpse. Not like before, with disgust, but like he's really _considering_ it.

"Potter," I say, "stop giving the corpse the once-over."

He turns toward me and grins. "I have a completely preposterous idea."

Harry Potter with a preposterous idea is thrilling and terrifying. I'm almost scared to ask, "What?"

"We need a diversion, right?" he says, glancing over at the corpse. "It's like in shows when—" He stops himself. "There's this trope in television shows where a kid wants to sneak out of the house, right?"

"...Okay?" He's so quick sometimes I can barely follow him, and I love it.

"But the kid wants their parent to think they're asleep, right? So they stuff some pillows under their duvet and put a wig on a ball or something, for a head, and then they hop out the window. When the parent first peeks in, they don't realise their kid is gone."

"We don't have a wig _or_ a ball," I point out.

"We have _magic_." He stands and walks over to Wormtail, assessing the body. "How's your Transfiguration?" 

I stare for a long moment. "Potter. Are you suggesting we Transfigure Wormtail's corpse to look like one of us?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Er, yes. Is that too weird for you?"

 _Marry me_ , I think. "Do I _look_ like a necromancer?" I stand, walking over. 

He shrugs. "Sure."

I sigh. "Well, alright. There's only one Wormtail, though. I don't really fancy cutting the corpse in half first."

He's thinking, and it's strange how easily I can follow his mind. He looks around the room, frowning. "Wrong, Malfoy. There's something else we can transfigure." I don't like his voice. It sounds Slytherin. No, worse. A combination of Slytherin and Gryffindor. A dangerous combination. A thrilling combination.

I scan the room, and my eyes catch on the rat, licking up water from a drip on the wall. The rat. Potter wants to Transfigure a rat to look like one of us. "Potter. You want to Transfigure a rat into a human shape."

He grins at me. "Have you been paying attention to McGonagall all these years?"

I stand taller. "Is that a challenge, Potter? Bagsy not my face on the rat."

"Good!" he says. "I'd rather not see my face on Wormtail's creepy fucking corpse."

Fucking hell, I miscalculated in my haste.

It's strange doing magic without a wand, but Potter manages to Stun the rat, and I manage to Levitate the corpse closer to the chain.

Once they're on the ground in front of our feet, I glance at Potter. He's frowning. "This is such a bad idea."

"Scared?" I ask. I am, though I'm not fucking admitting it. I didn't spend six years living in the Slytherin Common Room to get cold feet over some light corpse desecration.

He whispers, "Engorgio."

I jump backward about a foot as the rodent swells to the size of a mutant wombat. "FUCK!"

Potter backs himself into the wall, away from the rat, and starts laughing. "Your—Malfoy—your face!"

I whack him in the arm, trying not to overthink how familiar I'm being with him. "Shut up. It's hideous! It's a monstrosity!"

"Don't be mean to Radcliff." Potter absently heals a scratch on the rat's paw. "You're better at Transfig than I am, so I'm going to do the dead man, you do the rat. Don't hurt him. Like, make sure he can go back to being a live rat when we're done."

I gape at him. He's actually worried about the rat. I don't know whether to dwell on that, or the fact that he's just praised my Transfiguration skill. "Sure thing, Potter. I'll try not to hurt _Radcliff_."

Radcliff is Stunned, so at least he's not moving, but I've never attempted such a complicated Transfiguration. Potter, staring at Wormtail's lifeless body, seems to be thinking the same.

"Where do we start?" he whispers.

"At the top, of course," I say, completely at random, and cast a spell to remove the fur from the rat's face. The rat's furless face staring back at me, though, is terrifying, and I have to turn away for a minute. "Oh sweet Circe. That is heinous."

"It looks a bit like Slughorn," Potter says, and I can't retain composure. I end up laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes, which actually helps a bit, because it's better not to look too closely at Radcliff Slughorn at this point in the process.

We manage, somehow, to focus on the task. I spell a slim neck onto the creature and turn the fur on the top of its head black. I give it green eyes and shrink its teeth. I change the shape of its skull, removing the snout, and turn the nose into a more-or-less human organ. I glance at Potter to gauge skin tone. Turns out rat skin is pink-white under the fur, so I have to darken it considerably. It comes out looking a bit like a rat went overboard with a Suntan Solution, but this whole endeavor is never going to hold up under close scrutiny, anyway.

At this point I make the grave error of looking down at the corpse Potter is trying to bewitch into my likeness. 

He's turned Wormtail's hair white, which has accomplished nothing but making him look elderly. Potter has smoothed out the skin, but that's given it a plastic vibe and caused the eyes to bug out. He's shrunken the nose, but the new nose comes nearly to a point. 

"Potter," I spit. He glances over at me, but I can't think of any words that could begin to address the situation. 

"What?!" he says, all defensive. "I'm not done!"

" _How_ is it possible," I ask, "that I've made a rat look more like a human than your human?" I look back at my rat and jump. "Oh Merlin, nevermind. Neither of them look human."

"Let's just like, do the best we can, and then arrange them like they're sleeping. Facing away. Hope no one gets a close look."

"We only need to buy ourselves about ten seconds," I reason, trying to convince myself as much as Potter.

I use a Severing Charm to cut off a few pieces of Wormtail's clothes so I can Expand them into rat attire. The last thing the world needs is a rat inexpertly Transfigured to look like Harry Potter— _naked_. I shudder.

When we've finished, I can't stop staring. "This is one of the worst things I've ever had the misfortune to see."

"You've made my doppelganger look like the lovechild of Umbridge and a Blast-Ended Screwt."

"You've made _my_ doppelganger look like the lovechild of Winston Churchill and a plastic surgeon."

"I don't think I'll ever sleep again, after seeing this," Potter says. 

"Let's just—roll them onto their sides so it looks like they're asleep, and we need only look at their backs."

Rolling a Transfigured, Stunned rat and a corpse onto their sides is not as easy as one might expect, but we persevere. I'm sweating by the time we're done, and my magic feels a bit depleted.

"It's alright from the back," Potter says weakly.

I hum in agreement. "Not quite right, but at least it won't give anyone nightmares. What do we do now?"

I look around. The magic that Potter has manifested in the form of a chain is in the far right corner of the dungeon, visible from the door, but to the side. We've arranged the bodies across from the door.

"We need to hide over here by the chain, somehow, and Apparate out as soon as they drop the wards," Potter says.

"How do we keep them from seeing us when they first come in?" I look around, but we're running out of things to Transfigure. "Can we try to Transfigure that paper into some kind of screen, like to blend in with the wall, blocking us?"

Potter shrugs. "Sounds like the best plan we've got." We set to work, expanding the paper and changing the colour to match the stone wall. It's a fair approximation. It looks more like the wall than Wormtail's corpse looks like me, anyway. 

Potter uses a Sticking Charm to attach it to the ceiling. We need to hang it quite close to the wall, or it won't blend in. Which means there's not much space for us to squeeze behind it. 

"Do you think we'll hear them coming?" Potter grimaces, looking at the stairs. "I don't really want to hide there for hours."

"I think I'll know when the Dark Lord is close." My voice sounds small and I look down at my left forearm. I hate looking at it. I can't even wank without covering my arm. 

"Oh. Right." Potter doesn't look judgmental, but it does seem to sober him a bit. Somehow, we'd lost track of the fact that this situation is anything but funny. "I'll know, too." He slides down the wall, landing in a cross-legged position.

I have no idea what he means, since he doesn't have a Dark Mark, and I'm too much of a coward to ask. I sit next to him. We're close enough to the magic chain and the impromptu screen that we'll be able to secrete ourselves behind it quickly. 

"I guess we wait," I say.

Potter groans. "I'm so fucking tired of waiting. All I do is wait."

I lean my head on the wall. "Do you have a better idea?"

"No. Sorry. I'm just complaining."

"I'm good at complaining," I offer. It's like he's walked into a cigarette factory and asked if it's okay to smoke. "You can complain."

He snorts a laugh. "You don't want to open up that can of worms, Malfoy. I might never stop."

"At least you've been with friends recently, Potter. I've been spending all my time alone in my room. No one to whom to complain."

"I try not to complain to Ron and Hermione," Potter says, and I tilt my head, trying to figure him out. "They're so worried about me, to begin with."

I shift on the cold floor, trying to get comfortable. "Well, that's one way to spend the time here. We can complain. You needn't concern yourself worrying me. My threshold for complaints is rather high."

After all that, he says nothing. 

"Well go _on_ then, Potter. You've my rapt attention, ready to hear your grievances. The grievances can be about me or about other issues."

He turns, and he looks tired again. His cheeks are gaunt, he's dirty, he's got dark circles under his eyes. "It's not fair."

Something in my throat clenches. "True. Here's one of my grievances: I signed up for this, admittedly under duress, but I did, and yet the Dark Lord is still threatening me with werewolf rape. Or werewolf biting. Sometimes it's hard to know what, exactly, he's threatening me with."

Potter's eyes flare at the mention of the werewolf threats, but what he says is, "Yes, Malfoy. It's very sad that the hate group you joined isn't treating you according to some code of honour." He picks up a stone. "It's not fair that I have to figure out how to deal with people dying because of me."

"It feels like shit that my parents won't protect me right now."

"It feels like shit that my parents couldn't protect themselves when I was little."

"It's not fair that everyone around me misguided me about what the Dark Lord was doing. The things my parents taught me—it's not what he's about. All he cares about is power and hurting people."

"It's not fair that the adults always keep the truth from me, like I can't handle it."

"They killed my owl," I say, and it still stings—Rutherford hadn't done anything wrong.

Potter meets my eye. "They killed my owl, too."

We stop talking. Maybe complaining isn't a very constructive idea.

I think about all the disturbing things I've seen in this house in the last year. I think about all of the "meetings" that were really nothing more than the Dark Lord threatening every follower and ranting about mass genocide. I think about the way he talks about Potter. 

"I know," I say, trying to find words for what I need to tell him, "I know that you're not an attention whore. I know that you didn't want any of this."

It's not an apology. I can't ever apologise for what I've done. 

He nods, his green eyes boring into my soul. "I know, too. That you couldn't kill Dumbledore. That the Dark Lord blackmailed you to do awful things. That you didn't identify me, earlier."

My eyes sting. Curse my blasted _feelings_. "I'm still an arsehole."

Potter nods, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "You're still an arsehole."

"I'd do it all differently," I say softly. "If I had a second chance."

"Me too." 

We sit in silence for a long time. I wonder what things Potter would do differently. From my perspective, he always does everything right. Saves the world every June, it seems. Everyone adores him. I'm the one who fucks up every decision. And yet, he seems just as fucked up as me. There's something simultaneously encouraging and awful about that.

"You and me sitting here, helping each other," Potter says, "is so wrong. If it weren't for the war, we could've gone on hating each other forever. We could've let some ridiculous school feud go on seeming like a big deal."

"That sounds nice," I say, imagining it, reveling in it. "We'd see each other years later and scowl at each other. Pretend that we didn't understand anything about each other."

"Fuck Voldemort for taking that from us," Potter says.

I laugh. 

I haven't laughed much, and yet here I am stuck in a cellar with a corpse and Potter, about to die, and I keep laughing.

"I'm serious," Potter claims, laughing, "how dare—"

A blinding pain. 

I reach for my arm, gasping, trying not to pass out—that happened once, and I was punished accordingly. _Breathe through it_ , Mother had said. I try, but even my eyeballs hurt. 

The pain begins to fade and I open my eyes—Potter felt it too. He's grabbing his forehead, slumped to the side.

Interesting.

Through the pain, we stumble to our feet. Without a word, I sidle behind the screen we made. It's _just_ far enough from the wall to accommodate my body with my head turned toward Potter, and I find myself sucking in my stomach, trying to prevent my chest or face touching the screen. Potter rushes into place next to me, and we're way, way too close.

The chain is between us, and Potter wraps a hand around it. "Do you think we can both use the magic for our own spells at the same time? Otherwise we need to Apparate together, to the same place. I don't want to force you to come with me. Coming with me is a really bad idea. And we have no wands, so limited options on the other end."

"I don't know," I whisper. "About using it for separate spells. I'm not sure. It might not work, and we won't get a second chance."

Potter nods. "I'll Apparate us to Ron's brother's. You can leave after we get there, if you want."

"And what if I have nowhere to go?!" I ask. 

"Fuck if I know, Malfoy." Potter sighs. "I can't even figure out what to do with myself, much less other people. You'll have to decide."

 _You'll have to decide_. I'm so fucking tired of decisions. When the war is over, I'm putting a moratorium on decisions. No choices. No life-or-death. No thinking, just acting. 

There's a noise; we freeze. We're so close my outbreath fogs Potter's glasses.

The door doesn't open. I hear someone utter the incantation to turn a wall transparent. I close my eyes, hoping against hope that the Dark Lord lowers the wards, casts Incarcerous at the rats, and Potter gets us the fuck out of here.

What I hear, though, isn't the lashing sound of Incarcerous. It's...rustling. No, sniffing.

There's a bang, like someone just stood up, then a crash like they hit the wall.

Judging from Potter's eyes, we realise at the same moment: Radcliff just awoke from the Stunner.

We're going to die.

Behind Potter, I see the humanised rat fall from two feet onto hands and knees, then drunkenly wobble-crawl into the wall.

It looks nothing like Potter. If we weren't about to die, it would be quite droll. As is, I can't breathe.

A voice, suddenly more audible by some sort of magic, says, "Potter, are you _drunk_?" 

It's my father. 

My throat is clenched so tight, I almost can't speak. "It's my father."

Potter nods, his eyes wide with fear, and whispers back, "He hasn't taken down the wards."

"Potter, what have you done with my _son_?" 

The rat is crouched in the corner, facing away from the door, eating the shirt I made it, and doesn't respond.

"Draco! Are you alright? Potter, what have you done, is he alive? Draco, wake up. I'm getting you out of here." His voice is a hissing whisper.

I don't move. I don't breathe.

" _Filii tui salutem_." 

I know that spell. It's a spell parents use to locate their children and to check their child's health. In the blink of an eye, I'll be surrounded in a glowing blue light that will tell my father exactly where I am and that I don't have a fever or illness.

I don't think. I take a big step past Potter, out from behind the screen. As I pass him, I whisper, " _Go_."

Potter tries to grab my arm, to keep me hidden, but I shrug him off.

My father will lower the wards, and Potter will be gone before my father knows he was there. I won't be to blame for keeping him here. I won't.

My father, through the transparent wall, blinks, confused. "Draco?" He's looking between me and Wormtail's transfigured corpse.

The same second my father waves his wand to drop the wards, Radcliff turns and scarpers across the room. 

"Father," I say, trying to buy Potter a moment to Apparate the fuck out of here. But the rat is racing toward my father, and he slashes his wand, cutting a slice down the rat's cheek. 

"What is this demon?" my father hisses. "Draco, come _here_. Now."

He reaches his hand out, and I look back at the screen. I can't tell if Potter is gone. 

" _Draco_ ," my father says. "Now. The Dark Lord will be here any—"

My mark erupts in pain again, and I stagger backward, away from my father, my eyes flitting to the injured rat, which is rubbing a paw on its bloody cheek, to the screen. 

"He is here. Our time is up." My father extends a hand. He's going to Apparate me away. Or maybe he's going to deliver me to the Dark Lord himself. Maybe he'll kill me himself, in hope of gaining favour. I don't even know anymore.

"Malfoy!" It's Potter's voice, urgent.

I turn, eyes wide. Potter hasn't left. Why hasn't Potter left? "Go!" I shriek.

But Potter jets out from behind the screen, holding the chain tight in one hand and lunging towards me, extending his other hand.

My father shouts, and my eyes flit around the room: Potter's hand, my father screaming, a corpse, a rat, the pain radiating from my arm, Potter's hand.

My ears ring with pain and shock and rushing blood, and I lunge toward Potter, grasping his hand.

" _NO!_ " my father screams, swishing his wand.

Potter turns. My aching body is forced into nothingness. Pressure. 

Then, brilliant light through my closed eyes. Sea air, relieved shouts in the distance, the voice of the house-elf. 

I'm still holding Potter's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! There's a 90s teen [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/77Ij7kfM2BXoUpN3HDjuA7?si=GnSLk4l7SkaC8TC0mnsuSQ). You can find me on [Tumblr](https://aibidil.tumblr.com/).


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